


Vinny had a life all along

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Vinny gets a life [31]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I told you,” Thomas starts, a little defensively, and then realises he’s doing it, that he’s turning it into an accusation. He takes a breath. “I don’t want to have sex with anyone. I wasn’t lying. I don’t want to have sex with you.”</p><p>Anton doesn’t say anything. Thomas wants him to, but he knows Anton’s just doing what he asked him to, giving him the room to explain.</p><p>Thomas looks at his knees. Reminds himself he can’t make things worse. It doesn’t make him feel any more brave. “But I’m in love with you, so.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vinny had a life all along

Anton leaves, and Thomas doesn’t move, sits on the couch, tucked defensively into himself. If he made himself smaller maybe he could just disappear. It doesn’t seem likely, but it’s worth trying.

His phone buzzes once in his pocket, and he ignores it until it buzzes again a minute later. Thomas doesn’t have to look to know it’s Anton. He hopes he’s sitting in the driveway instead of texting while driving. He reluctantly uncurls himself, fishes his phone out of his pocket.

 _I’m sorry_ , Anton texted him, and then, _I don’t know what you want_

 _I told you I didnt want sex. did you think I was lying?_ Thomas texts back, chewing on his lip.

 _I think you want me_ , Anton texts.

Thomas wonders who told Anton that, or if he’s been so obvious that ‘everyone but Anton knows’ became ‘everyone _and_ Anton knows’ and Thomas didn’t even notice.

 _I do._ Thomas texts, stares at it for a minute. Sends it because Anton did the brave thing first, even if it was stupid, self-sacrificing, like Thomas was a puck he had to throw himself in front of. It’s not a good metaphor: Thomas can’t be the thing Anton protects and the thing that hurts him, except maybe he can. _But not like that._

 _I dont get it_ , Anton says, _help me out here vinny_.

It isn’t the kind of thing you can explain through text. Thomas doesn’t think he’s very good at explaining it at all, but character limits are even worse than the stop and start of conversation, the embarrassment he feels, like he’s apologising for himself, even though he doesn’t think he has anything to apologise for. If there’s anything he should apologise for, it’s that they’ve known each other this long, this well, and Thomas still hasn’t explained it in a way that Anton can understand. Hadn’t explained it at all until recently. That he is ashamed of.

Thomas doesn’t want to talk to him right now, doesn’t want to talk to anyone, but as furious as he is at Anton, he gets it, the frustration, the confusion, so he hits call. He doesn’t expect to hear the ringtone Anton has for him, thready and thin, coming from outside, but more fool he. It’s been a night of unexpected things, Thomas guesses.

“Are you on my porch?” Thomas asks when Anton picks up.

Anton’s quiet. “Yes,” he says reluctantly.

Thomas goes to the window. Anton’s against the front railing, one hand holding his phone to his ear, the other one hugged to his body, presumably for warmth, because he’s still only in shirt sleeves. 

“It’s like two degrees out,” Thomas says.

“It’s like thirty,” Anton says with his usual knee-jerk Fahrenheit correction, even though he lives in freaking Canada and has for his entire adult life, but his heart doesn’t sound in it.

“Come inside, Tony,” Thomas says, quiet.

“Yeah?” Anton asks. 

“Yeah,” Thomas says.

Thomas doesn’t move when Anton hangs up, when he hears the door opening, closing, hears Anton throwing the lock, which Thomas didn’t think to do when he left. Doesn’t move when Anton comes in, shivering a little. There’s snow in his hair, melting into droplets. It did snow, then. Thomas didn’t notice it when he looked outside.

Anton hovers at the edge of the couch, looking unsure, like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to take a seat or not.

Thomas scoots to the edge of the couch, tucks his knees up to his chest, makes it clear there’s room. 

“I’m not going to like lunge at you,” Anton says. “You made it clear you don’t want me.” He pauses. “Except apparently you do,” he continues, sounding frustrated. “So what the fuck.”

“Sit down,” Thomas says. It’s not like Thomas can make things much worse at this point. It’s cold comfort, but it means he has less to lose. 

Anton doesn’t move. “Please?” Thomas adds.

Anton sits on the opposite end of the couch. He sits with perfect posture, straight backed, like he’s bracing himself. 

“I don’t, like, _want_ you,” Thomas says.

“You said—” Anton starts.

“Let me try, here, Tony,” Thomas says. “Okay?”

Anton looks mutinous, but he doesn’t say anything else, so Thomas will take that as agreement.

“I told you,” Thomas starts, a little defensively, and then realises he’s doing it, that he’s turning it into an accusation. He takes a breath. “I don’t want to have sex with anyone. I wasn’t lying. I don’t want to have sex with you.”

Anton doesn’t say anything. Thomas wants him to, but he knows Anton’s just doing what he asked him to, giving him the room to explain. 

Thomas looks at his knees. Reminds himself he can’t make things worse. It doesn’t make him feel any more brave. “But I’m in love with you, so.”

Anton’s still quiet, and after a minute Thomas can’t stand the silence, can’t stand not seeing what’s on Anton’s face, and looks up. It doesn’t help. Anton’s always had a good poker face, and he has it now.

“You can say something now,” Thomas says, and he doesn’t meant for it to, but it comes out like a plea.

“You’re in love with me?” Anton asks quietly.

“I mean,” Thomas says, stops. “Yeah. I thought you knew that. I thought that was why—” stops again. Doesn’t really want to finish the sentence, because it sounds like a plea again, and that’s exactly the problem, that Anton’s trying to humour him, that he’s trying to do what he thinks Thomas wants, and Thomas telling him what he wants, that won’t really help if that means Anton’s just going to try to do that too. “Anyway, you can be in love with someone and not want to have sex with them,” he says. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

Anton’s looking at him, Thomas can feel it, but he doesn’t meet his eye. “Can you go now?” Thomas asks. “I didn’t want you to be confused, but I’m still really pissed at you, so—”

“I don’t know how I feel about you,” Anton says.

Thomas flinches. 

“Don’t,” Anton says, like Thomas can control it. “I’m saying this wrong. I don’t want to have sex with you either.”

“Cool,” Thomas mumbles. “Glad we got this figured out, can you go?”

“I think about you all the time,” Anton says over him. “Like. I don’t think it’s normal, how much I think about you.”

Thomas looks up. Anton’s red, and any semblance of a poker face is gone. 

“I see you pretty much every day, and it still doesn’t feel like enough, and I—” 

“Tony?” Thomas says, when Anton doesn’t continue.

“I didn’t know you could be in love with someone without wanting to have sex with them, okay?” Anton mumbles, and now he’s the one looking at his knees. “Like, it’s not normal to want to be with someone without wanting — without _wanting_ them.”

“Sorry I’m not normal,” Thomas says, too sharp.

“I mean me, okay?” Anton says. “The day you moved out I was supposed to meet Amanda. I forgot, after. I mean. It wasn’t really important.”

“Tony—” Thomas says.

“Shut up,” Anton says, but not angrily. Thomas gets it, the need to get the words out before someone stops you, before you stop yourself.

“She was so pissed,” Anton says. “She called me and I was like three hours late, and I just. I told her what happened, I don’t know why. She asked me if I was in love with you,” Anton says. He hasn’t looked up once, and all Thomas can see is the fringe of his hair, the cut of his jaw, shadowed with stubble, his left ear, the same embarrassed red of his cheeks. Thomas can’t remember the last time Anton talked this much, unless he was angry. He might be angry. Thomas doesn’t know. “I said no, but. I don’t know. I felt like I was lying to her. I didn’t know I was lying.”

Thomas unfolds, reaches a foot out to tentatively nudge Anton’s thigh, and Anton curls a hand around his ankle, tight, doesn’t let go.

“And you were gone and like, loving up fucking Carmen, and everything was fucked up, and,” Anton takes a breath. “I didn’t know I was lying,” he repeats, voice small. “When did you —” Anton starts. Every pause takes forever, silence overtaken by the sound of Thomas’ heartbeat, too fast and too loud in his ears, but he’s afraid to push, thinks that might break Anton, break them both. “How long have you been—”

“In love with you?” Thomas says, when Anton doesn’t look like he’s going to finish, and Anton looks up for the first time, looking almost startled. He nods, jerky.

“I don’t know,” Thomas says, which is true, but not enough. “Years. Probably since Hamilton.”

“Me too, I think?” Anton says. “You’ve always been smarter than me.”

“I’m not—”

“Learn to take a compliment, Tommy,” Anton interrupts him. “Every time someone says something nice to you, you shrug it off like you don’t deserve it. I hate it.”

“Okay,” Thomas says. “Sorry.”

Anton hasn’t let go of his ankle. He squeezes, once. “So what now?” Anton asks, sounding a little plaintive. Thomas doesn’t know, but he knows Anton, and he knows that Anton doesn’t know either, that Anton doesn’t like what he doesn’t know, that it scares him, so Thomas guesses it’s his job to know, or at least pretend he does. Still, he’s a bad liar.

“I don’t know,” Thomas says. “I love you, you love me—”

“If you quote fucking Barney at me, Vin, I swear to fucking god,” Anton says, and Thomas laughs shakily.

“I don’t know,” Thomas repeats. “I’m. I’m really tired. Are you tired?”

Anton nods slightly.

“Okay,” Thomas says. “Here’s the plan. Ready for the plan?”

He can see Anton’s mouth tip up slightly. “Ready,” Anton confirms.

“Okay. Step one: let go of my ankle,” Thomas says. 

Anton snorts, but he lets go.

“Step two:” Thomas continues, with all the confidence he doesn’t feel. “Ready for step two?”

Anton rolls his eyes at him, and Thomas grins back, grins wider when Anton can’t suppress a smile.

“Hug your goalie,” Thomas says. 

“Connors isn’t—” Anton starts, and Thomas kicks him in the thigh. “Hey!”

“Hug your favourite goalie,” Thomas says, and before Anton says anything, “and no sass from you, Petrov.”

“You sound like my mom,” Anton says, and for once he doesn’t say it grimly.

Thomas holds his arms out demandingly, and Anton doesn’t so much lean in to hug him as to collapse into him, face mashed into Thomas’ neck, hair ticklish against his nose. Thomas kisses his temple because it’s there and because he wants to, because he thinks he’s allowed. Even after everything, he’s still so relieved that Anton doesn’t pull away.

“Tomorrow morning I’m going to make you like a billion pancakes,” Thomas says. “And we’re going to sit at the table and pretend we’re grown ups and talk about what’s next.”

“I’m a grown up,” Anton mutters, but Thomas ignores him, because grown ups don’t say grown up, he’s been told that a million times, sometimes by Anton. Usually by Fourns.

“Tonight’s up to you,” Thomas says. “You can go home if you want, or. I have guest rooms. Or. I mean. You can sleep with me. If you want.”

Anton exhales. When he talks his mouth brushes Thomas’ throat, and Thomas’ skin feels oversensitive, electric. “With you,” he says. “If that’s okay. It’s — I sleep better when you’re there.”

“Me too,” Thomas says. “Ready to go to bed?”

Anton doesn’t say anything for a minute, doesn’t move, just breathes, close enough that Thomas can feel every inhale and exhale through every place they’re touching. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

They undress on either side of the bed, the same routine they’ve had since they shared a road room in Hamilton, neither shy, embarrassed about their bodies, so no one’s ducking into the bathroom to change into pyjamas like some people Thomas knows, not that he’s naming names.

Thomas plugs his phone in on his nightstand. Plugs Anton’s in when Anton hands it over. Sets the alarm a half hour before he’d prefer. Is pretty sure Anton’s going to wake him up before it goes off anyway.

“Shut the light?” Thomas says.

“Shut the light,” Anton repeats, like practically every non-Francophone does. Whatever, he’s shutting it, not hitting it, English doesn’t make any sense.

“Shut your face,” Thomas says.

“Oh burn,” Anton says, but he shuts the light. It’s almost pitch black, the only light the dim streetlight filtering through the dark curtains. Thomas can sleep through almost anything, but Anton needs it to be dark.

Thomas crawls under the covers on his designated side of the bed. Thinks it was probably weird that they already had designated sides, but it’s not something he’s really worried about anymore, just relieved there won’t be a side of the bed fight like Thomas had (and lost) with Meg.

Anton makes Thomas be little spoon again. Thomas thinks that is a fight he’ll lose, if he bothers to try. He doesn’t think he will bother, though. There’s space between them like a living presence, at least until Anton scoots forward, Thomas scoots back, a centimetre at a time, until they meet in the middle. Anton’s hand hovers, indecisive, before he tucks it in, palm centred on Thomas’ chest, where his heart’s still beating too fast, but slowing now in the face of habit, the normalcy of sharing a room, routine, even if he doesn’t usually fall asleep with Anton pressed against his back.

“Hey,” Thomas whispers after a minute.

“Mm?” Anton says.

“Hi,” Thomas says. “Hi Tony.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Anton says.

“Okay,” Thomas says, smiling in the dark.

“Hi Vinny,” Anton whispers back about ten seconds later, and Thomas can’t smile any wider, but he tries.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final story in this specific narrative, however I am probably far from done with these boys on tumblr and in stories of the week.
> 
> Speaking of which, [EXCITING THINGS ARE STILL HAPPENING ON TUMBLR.](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com)


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